


The Melting Point of Blundstones

by Schalakitty



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, M/M, Or at least he tries to be, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schalakitty/pseuds/Schalakitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Night Vale, even an afternoon walk can prove dangerous. Fortunately, Carlos comes prepared. Unfortunately, Cecil does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Melting Point of Blundstones

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [LarissaFae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LarissaFae/pseuds/LarissaFae) for her excellent beta reading skills. Set between "A Blinking Light Up on the Mountain" and "Yellow Helicopters." Contains a spoiler for "Condos," but only a small one.

Looking back on everything, Carlos decides that the headphones actually saved them. As to be expected, he and Cecil have greatly differing opinions on the subject. (“Carlos, you don't understand! Vintage headphones have this wonderful warm sound you can't get from earbuds and you feel so safe when they're pressed tight over your ears and you can even enchant them for superior noise cancellation.”) But his bone-conduction headphones are perfectly suited and pretty much required for walking around Night Vale, letting him hear everything around him as well as his music. 

It's a lovely Superday afternoon and he has his I ☣ Radio app tuned to Postmodern Jukebox on NVCR. Overall, it's his second favorite show on the station (his first is pretty obvious, but he also enjoys that they air only _slightly_ censored reruns of Car Talk), mainly because he never has any idea what they'll play. With a carry-out bag from Jerry's Tacos (yes, it _is_ a Hooded Figure enclave, but they serve amazing black bean tacos with fresh salsa verde that are far more nutritious than anything Taco Bell dares to call Mexican food, so Carlos is willing to brave it) in hand for those stuck with monitoring duty back at the lab, he is secretly indulging in a 40's jazz version of “Just Dance” when the alarm sounds. Not from one of the many klaxon sirens that line the streets with the regularity of telephone poles, but from the small black meter he keeps clipped to his utility belt. 

The Danger Meter had been a joke, at first. His team had several devices that could detect energy anomalies, and careful observation of past events showed a direct correlation between the intensity of the anomalies and number of resulting fatalities. One late night when they were all sleep deprived and only awake thanks to copious amounts of caffeine, Juumane suggested that instead of measuring readings in watts or joules or amperes any other SI-standard unit, they should just call them Standard Fatality Units and be done with it. 

In a burst of inspiration, Carlos had broken out one of his favorite multi-tools (the artfully titled “The Warranty Voider”) and hacked together a Danger Meter from a few partially beat up but salvageable devices. They all had a good chuckle over the idea, going so far as to paint a little skull and crossbones on it and give instructions for what to do in case of different readings (1-33 SFU: Remain Calm, 34-66 SFU: Find Shelter, 67-99 SFU: Run For You Life, 100 SFU: Accept Your Fate). But then, over and over again, it proved to be frighteningly accurate. After it predicted the exact number of fatalities from the annual Running of the Jackalopes, Carlos had not only taken to carrying the original one, but made extras for the rest of his team. 

So when furious beeping cuts through the song's tap dance solo bridge, he immediately shifts all focus to the device. A spike to 45 SFU has him glancing around fervently for the source of the anomaly. Behind him in the middle of the currently empty street comes the fracturing of asphalt and a low hiss of steam with seemingly no particular force or creature causing it. He almost brushes it off as a false alarm until the action repeats itself, quickly drawing closer with each heated burst. 

Carlos is already running when it catches up to him, steam breaking through the seams between street and gutter to scald the exposed skin of his calves. Mentally, he berates himself for wearing cargo shorts but, as a New England native, over a year in the desert still hasn't acclimated him to 90 degrees in September. Still, the heat is all the impetus he needs to pick his pace up further, causing the contents of his various pockets to shift with each stride as he barrels down the sidewalk. A distant and bemused part of him notes that if nothing else living in Night Vale has does wonders for him in terms of cardio exercise. 

The glowing red sky crystal floating over the strip mall draws him like a beacon as Carlos rounds the corner of the charred walls of the public library. Behind him, the streets crack and hiss, the wet heat biting at his heels as he darts across the street. Just as his feet hit sidewalk, he glances back to find the strange serpentine motion (he dares not anthropomorphize it further) diverting down a side street to chase after a leopard print Ford Focus, sparing him for the moment. He's scrambling to work out his next step when a familiar voice greets him, “Carlos, what a wonderful coincidence.” 

His boyfriend waves from just outside the Pinkberry, before raising his large plastic bag. “I got us a twenty-five ounce container of the drunken kiwi-coconut for tonight,” Cecil informs with a cheery smile, seemingly oblivious to the destruction on the street. But he seems to at least notice Carlos' agitation as he asks, “Is something the matter?”

Truth be told, he is currently putting Science before Cecil, but only for their own good. Pulling out his infrared thermometer from his messenger bag, he quickly takes a reading of the still smoking hole in the street. 238 Fahrenheit, hot enough to melt tarmac, but it must take intense pressure to rend it open like that. Turning back to the befuddled radio host, he assesses their options and tries to ignore the surprisingly catchy doo-wop cover of a boyband song currently piping in through his headphones. 

His lab is the safest option, quite literally. The building has survived multiple Street Cleaning Days and everything else Night Vale had thrown at it. It's also only a block away, so they can get there quickly, which is becoming more imperative as he hears the fissures coiling back in their direction. The problem is that he now has to get them _both_ to safety. 

Cecil's shoes are the main issue. Unlike Carlos' own very sensible slip-resistant Blunstone boots that can withstand heat up to 250 degrees, the broadcaster's choice in footwear is not as practical. While those strappy silver sandals look really cute and show off his impressive home pedicure in Electric Sheep Purple, they couldn't possibly withstand the heat. The heat which needs to be his focus and not his boyfriend's charming if eccentric outfit of tie-dye capri pants paired with an embroidered scoop neck tunic that shows off a hint of his swirling black tattoos and the delicate lines of his collarbone, including a subtly placed love bite from last ni- 

The sharp crack of buckling asphalt refocuses him just as he grabs the broadcaster's free hand. “Cecil, this is _important_ ,” he prefaces as he's done many times before. “I need you to...” No, running alone won't help, not if those sandals melt. The answer comes to him in a suddenly flurry of thought and then he's handing off the taco bag and kneeling down, lab coat pooling on the dusty concrete. “I need you to get on my back. It's too dangerous for you to run, so I'm going to carry you to the lab.” 

But the dramatics don't seem to convince his boyfriend. “Carlos, it's just a steam serpent. I'm sure I can make it just fine on my own two feet,” Cecil argues with one hand on his hip, the other holding the bags of frozen yogurt and tacos. “It's not like I'll feel the pain anyway.” 

It's things like that – that casual disregard for the imminent dangers of Night Vale – that drive him sick with worry some days. “Please, let me...” He hesitates, trying to find the right words. _Let me be the brave and daring Carlos the Scientist you gush about on the radio and not just the often over-whelmed, over-worked Carlos Rosario I actually am._ Sighing, he instead settles on, “Let me keep you _safe._ ” 

Somehow, his concern for Cecil's well-being manages to sink in and his boyfriend gives this dreamy little sigh before acquiescing. “Well, if _you_ want to keep me safe, then, dear Carlos, I suppose a quick piggyback ride to the lab is within reason.” With that he moves to carefully settle against the scientist's back, mindful of the bags as he shifts about. And perhaps, he gives at least a momentary indulgence in inhaling the scent of Carlos' hair, lush with tropical oils from the natural shampoos he buys at the Green Market Co-op. 

Carlos stands up very carefully, off balance at first but adapting quickly. Just as he finishes adjusting to the weight of the broadcaster upon his back, the steam serpent (and he really shouldn't be so disbelieving that such a phenomena has its own terminology in Night Vale) curls into the strip mall parking lot. With a quick, muttered Kriolu curse, Carlos takes off running towards the lab. 

With eyes straight ahead toward their goal, he can only hear the destruction unfolding behind them, the cracks and snaps sharp and loud over the soft but still present sound of his radio (Currently playing the tail end of that ridiculous He-Man version of “What's Up?” he hasn't heard since working on his doctoral thesis and he knows he's never heard it on the radio ever before). “Cecil,” he manages, breath and body already running ragged between this and his last sprint. “Cecil, please, _report_ for me.” 

Somehow, that sonorous voice cuts through all the other noise around him and wraps around him in soothing professional tones. “The steam serpent is currently slithering its way down Second Street, occasionally coiling back on itself to form gnarled paths through the tarmac. I am certain that the Department of Transportation will be quite upset at the amount of damage it's causing...” 

As he makes a hard left onto Main Street, Carlos reflects on his life choices. That he is currently carrying his boyfriend – a broadcaster who spent a year publicly swooning over him on the radio – piggyback down a street rather than risking Cecil being injured by a monster made of steam and pressure. That in one hand Cecil has tacos from a restaurant under the management of malevolent beings who speak only in static while in the other he holds frozen yogurt in a flavor that doesn't exist outside of this strange desert town. And amid all of this, his headphones play a male cover of the Nicki French techno remix of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (which makes it twice covered he supposes) that only he can hear. He finds himself shaking his head as nineties beat sets his pace and the singer croons, “Every now and then, I know you'll always be the only boy who wanted me the way that I am.” 

It's all very fitting somehow.

Dashing past Big Rico's, his lab has never looked more welcoming. But even as he's making his way up the steps, Carlos catches the sound of the steam breaking through the concrete sidewalk. “Hit the passcode for me – 6-1-5-1-2,” he instructs, ducking down so that Cecil can reach the keypad. It seems to take an eternity for the door to open, each second compounding the dread building hard in his gut. But once it clicks, he shoves his way through and kicks it closed behind them right before collapsing to his knees. 

Panting hard, muscles aching, and sweat soaking through one of his favorite t-shirts (a stegosaurus with a bar graph in place of its plates because what could be better than statistics _and_ dinosaurs combined), Carlos just needs some time to recenter himself. However, his boyfriend wastes no time offering praise. “Oh, Carlos, you were so very _dashing_ , carrying me to safety like that. I know you didn't _have_ to, but the fact that you _wanted_ to...” Whatever else Cecil plans to say is lost in a light kiss to the side of his neck. 

He still doesn't feel like _Carlos the Scientist_ from the nightly news reports of Night Vale Community Radio, but right then it's more than enough to simply be appreciated for who he is.

**Author's Note:**

> **A List of Things That Exist**
> 
> [Bone-conduction headphones](https://www.aftershokz.com/products/), [The Warranty Voider Multi-Tool](http://www.makershed.com/Make_Warranty_Voider_Leatherman_PS4_p/mkltm1.htm), [Drunken kiwi-coconut ice cream](http://sugary-and-buttery.blogspot.com/2013/08/drunken-kiwi-coconut-popsicles.html), [Infrared Thermometers](http://www.omega.com/pptst/OS685.html), [Blundstone heat-resistant boots](http://www.zappos.com/blundstone-bl1316-black-red), [Electric Sheep Purple nail polish](http://occmakeup.com/collections/nails/products/nail-lacquer), [Kriolu/Cabo Verde Creole](http://kriolu.org/creole), [Datasaurus t-shirt](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/f3dc/)
> 
> **A List of Things I Wish Existed**
> 
> I ☣ Radio, Danger Meters
> 
> **Your Extended Forecast**
> 
> ["Just (Tap) Dance" by Scott Bradlee and Postmodern Jukebox](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GprENPJXUJY), ["What Makes You Beautiful" by Street Corner Renaissance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RHlW69hLW-I), ["Fabulous Secret Powers" AKA He-Man sings "What's Up"](http://vimeo.com/8564338), ["Total Eclipse of the Heart (Techno Remix)" by Nicki French](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQdqS4jH058) – sadly there is not a male cover and the internet should get on that.


End file.
